Nutshell Poem by Szabolcs Várady

I must have been four when I shoved a BB
up my nose. It's reached here already,
I pointed to my forehead.

Was I clamoring for more attention?
There was a house, a garden, a hill, a river.
And our dog that once leapt at my throat.

Christmas was good. Mysteries whirled the dark
living room where the tree was hidden. Outside, snow
whirled. Preparing, expecting. Expecting was good.

True, I imagined being grown up to be
different. I never accepted it as final.
That whatever happens, is. That there's a final end.

I didn't love women well. I know it.
Those I deeply loved, like a drowning man.
Later, among flames, a wet log.

More self-contempt that self-abandonment.
To such a man whatever happens isn't even
his own fate. He retreats, while he can

causes mischance. He's not enough for anyone.
A bullet to his head? To end it all? To live?
Grim procrastination lurks,

double or nothing takes all.

Translated of Daniel Hoffman

from:The Gettysburg Review, 2003